


Adrift

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, M/M, Mild Language, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~*~ Set nineteen months after 'Whatever It Takes' ~*~<br/>... When Will discovers that the last, miserable month has all been a lie, does he have it in him to be able to successfully move forward?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> * The first 'section' is not what it immediately seems. Without being... too... obvious... Keep Calm And Keep Reading!  
> * Narrated by Will.  
> * Contains... still deliberately vague... flashbacks to what happened in Erato (Whatever It Takes). If you find references to non-con disturbing, you may want to give this a miss.  
> * Can probably be read as a stand-alone. (Does, however, explain that the ending to Whatever It Takes... wasn't what you probably thought it would be!)  
> * Self-beta'd.
> 
> * As always, thank you to all those who have very kindly left kudos. Your encouragement probably explains why I'm currently 48,000 words into a fic and haven't even been writing it for three weeks!

=========  
Adrift  
by TalithaX  
=========

 

Unsure as to what woke me, I roll over onto my back and, gazing up at the ceiling, take stock of my admittedly somewhat limited options. Beams of light cross an otherwise darkened room from gaps in the drapes but, having no timetable to keep these days, the fact that it's obviously morning means nothing to me. My bladder isn't demanding attention, I'm not thirsty, hunger – like having a reason to drag my ass out of bed in order to face another tedious day – isn't something that seems to effect me anymore, and as it appears I'm now only capable of two dreams, both of which have physical consequences upon waking, it can't have been one of those either. One, the explosion in a loop of high definition perfection, sees me gasping to consciousness and so drenched in sweat that I have to immediately get up and take a shower. The other, however, is worse. Far worse. Our last night together. His hands and mouth on me as, lost in the moment and oblivious to what's in our future, we move together in exquisite unison. I wake hard, to the sound of his name still dying on my lips, and what follows is a perfunctory inconvenience. An unfortunate necessity, yes, but hollow and devoid of all pleasure.

Given that I'm neither dripping in sweat nor hard though, I accept that it can't have been a dream that woke me and, no longer possessing the interest in getting to the bottom of it, roll back over onto my side and close my eyes. It's then, of course, that the doorbell rings again and, my eyes flying open, it hits me that that's what must have woken me in the first place. Sighing, I sit up and, making a mental note to just remove the batteries from the damn thing and to be done with it once and for all, wearily rub my hands over my face. Having no interest in – anything – whoever it might be standing on my front doormat and interrupting my peace, I have no intention of answering the door bell and just wish they'd hurry up and – fuck off – get the hint already. I know it's rude of me, and that by merely accepting this I'm actually taking yet another step backwards but, as with just about everything at the moment, I honestly don't care.

I don't want company. I'm by no means fit for it anyway, and just want to be left alone to work through things in my own time. Denied the closure of a formal goodbye in the form of a funeral and with the others packed off to spend some quality time with their families, I don't know what's expected of me anyway. To just suck up the grief and the injustice and the fact, even more so than ever before, I feel like a pawn being played by the great and almighty IMF, and just... Plaster on a smile and report for duty like nothing's changed? Soldier on in the face of adversity and continue to fight the good fight for the greater good, because that's what I've always – blindly – done?

Well, I'm sorry, but I just can't. Not this time. Not when I've lost so much and feel so... empty.

The doorbell ringing again causing me to clench my teeth, I gaze at the clock radio on the bedside table and see that it's already gone ten just as, to my astonishment, the sound of a key being fitted in the lock of the front door reaches me. Disbelief coloured with a (un)healthy dose of annoyance guiding me, I climb out of bed and walk into the living room as the door opens and two men stroll uninvited into my house. Clone-like in their dark suits, white shirts and black ties, and with short, product-free hairstyles and matching bland expressions on their matching square-jawed faces, I know they're IMF even before, as though choreographed and no doubt practised to perfection, they flip open their ID wallets and proudly present their credentials to me.

Already having settled on gifting them the – bland as they look – names of Agent Smith for the slightly taller one on the left and Agent Jones for the one with the American flag pin on his lapel, I don't bother reading their ID cards and, folding my arms across my chest in a classic defensive pose, sarcastically murmur, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“You can start by getting dressed,” Jones replies as, looking me up and down and clearly not liking what he's seeing, he glances at Smith and wrinkles his nose.

“As this is my house and given the fact I have no plans on leaving it any time soon, I'll wear what I Goddamn want,” I retort, narrowing my eyes and gesturing towards the door. Just because I don't normally greet guests – unexpected and unwanted, or otherwise – clad only in black boxers emblazoned in white polka dots doesn't mean a pair of most likely ex-CIA and dead from the knees up IMF grunts have the right to look down their noses at me. “Now, seeing as you let yourselves in, you can let yourselves out. I'm going back to...”

“We're here to escort you to headquarters,” Smith announces, cutting me off. “The Secretary requests your presence at a meeting scheduled for midday.”

“Requests?” I query with a dry snort. “In that case, and I really hope I can trust you with this momentous task, please take my message of 'thanks, but no thanks' back to the Secretary for me. I know the postal service can take its sweet time, but seeing as I sent it three weeks ago he should have my letter of resignation by now which means, and I'm sure even you two can appreciate this, he has no right to summons me to...”

“Has being holed up in here like a hermit made you fall in love with the sound of your own voice or something?” Jones mutters, shaking his head as he shares a – 'we've scored a fruitcake here' – look with Smith. “Look, Brandt, our orders are to ensure you present for the midday meeting. We didn't ask why and, quite frankly, we don't care.”

“Our orders didn't include... how... we get you there,” Smith adds with what I suspect he thinks is a menacing tone to his voice but which, sadly, just makes me want to laugh. “So... Just go and get dressed and we'll be on our way.”

Not wanting to capitulate, hell, not wanting any part of this period, I quickly go through the uninteresting options open to me as I glower at the two agents. I can continue to mouth off before, hopefully with an armful of clothes snatched from my closet being thrown in after me, being bundled into the car. I can wave goodbye to what little self-respect I have left and make a run for it, but... A) I don't think, clad like this and having spent the last four weeks wallowing in self-pity and sitting on my ass, I'd get very far and, B) knowing how his fellow agents treated Ethan that day outside the hospital when his sole focus was on being able to help his then wife and not simply standing down and playing nice for the benefit of IMF, I don't particularly like the idea of how it would invariably end.

So...

“Fine. Whatever,” I state flatly. “With an invite like that, how could I possibly refuse.”

“Funnily enough, that's what I thought you'd say,” Jones smirks. “Now, can we trust you to get dressed or do you need a hand?”

“It'll be a push, but I think I'll just be able to manage.” Not wanting to hang around to witness the self-congratulatory high-five they're probably just dying to give each other for having successfully gotten their way, I spin around and make my way back to the bedroom. Entering it, I eye the pile of dirty jeans and T-shirts by the foot of the bed and for a second actually contemplate just grabbing something up off the floor and pulling it on. Unwashed, unshaven and dressed in dirty clothes, I could most likely make the Secretary regret his invite the moment he laid eyes on me. Only...

I can't do it.

I'd like to, and God knows it's not as if I care what the Secretary or anyone else associated with IMF for that matter thinks about me any more, but I have to draw a line in the sand somewhere in relation to my free fall and this, not wanting to give them even more cause to write me off, may as well be it.

“Thought you said you could manage,” Jones mutters as he materialises in my doorway and, just like my appearance did earlier, the sight of my pigsty of a bedroom causes him to wrinkle his nose. “Man, you've really lost it, haven't you,” he continues, leaning against the doorframe and giving me a look that can be best described as pitying. “And to think you were actually on Hunt's team. Ethan Hunt! The most brilliant agent to have ever worked for IMF, the one who...”

Okay. That's it. I don't have to hear this. I especially don't have to hear this from a rock ape who probably never even met Ethan.

“And if I wanted your fucking opinion I would have asked for it!” I snap, glaring at Jones. “Just... Don't. Please, don't. I'll get dressed and come with you, but don't for a second think it's because I either want to or have a masochistic desire to have you pass uninformed and unasked for judgement on me. You're a courier or a chauffeur to me, nothing more.”

Shrugging, Jones tilts his head towards the en suite. “And you're wasting time. If you're planning on showering, oh, and incidentally, I recommend it, I suggest you get a move on.”

“Fuck you,” I, with an uninspired lack of originality, retort and, unable to remain in the man's company for fear of what he'll bring out in me next, storm into the bathroom and slam the door shut behind me. Ignoring both my reflection in the mirror above the basin and the fact I'm actually trembling with emotion, I strip off my boxers and step into the shower. Once I'm clean, dry, shaven and with minty fresh teeth and breath, I tie the towel loosely around my hips and reluctantly return to the bedroom. One thing finally going my way this morning, Jones is no longer lurking in the doorway and I'm able to quickly dress in a charcoal suit, light grey shirt and dark purple tie – the funeral outfit I never got to wear – in peace before taking a deep, in no way calming breath, and walking back into the living room.

“Okay then, let's get this show on the road,” I announce, as without waiting for an answer from the two men, who I can't help but note are making themselves perfectly at home on my sofa, I grab my keys and wallet from the sideboard and walk up to the front door. “Come on! We don't want to keep Mr Secretary waiting now, do we...”

“He might have scrubbed up okay,” Smith murmurs to Jones as, standing up and smoothing their suits down, they make their way over to the door, “but he still can't keep his stupid mouth shut.”

“Just wait. If you're really lucky I might start to sing,” I reply sweetly. “If you've got any requests, just let me know.”

“I...” Sighing, Jones shakes his head and uses the remote to unlock the de rigueur black Ford sedan in the driveway. “Just, whatever, man.”

Reaching the car, both agents climb into the front, Smith behind the wheel and Jones riding shotgun, which means, to my great relief, I get the backseat to myself. Getting in, I pull the door shut and my seatbelt on before resting my head back against the headrest and, resigned to seeing through whatever it is that's coming, close my eyes. While I mightn't know the reason behind the Secretary's out of the blue summons, the one thing I am certain of is that I don't really want any part of it and just want to be left alone. My letter of resignation having had to have hit his desk close to three weeks ago, it's not as though he could have suddenly decided the time has come to better have a go at talking me out of leaving so, really, there's just no way it can be that. Even if it's something as simple as an exit-meeting, or whatever it's called when you're made to sign a piece of paper promising to never ever say a word to anyone about your super secret ex-job, followed by one final tedious session with the in-house shrink, I just...

I'm not that far gone to not realise it's pathetic of me, but I just honestly don’t think I'm up for it. I don't want to explain my reasons, knee-jerk and ill thought out that they are, and I most certainly don't want to talk about what I'm going through or to have to listen to meaningless platitudes from the mouths of those I currently have no respect for. Nor, and this would be even worse, it really would, do I want to have plans for a too little, too late memorial proudly laid out before me. Given how they've fucked up everything else about this sad and sorry affair, it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest that a month after the event they've finally decided to grant him the respect he deserves. Again though, if it turns out that something like that is actually the reason behind why I'm being dragged into headquarters then, to hell with trying to keep it together, I'm just going to let them have it. To send a minion in to my hospital room to not only hit me with the cold, hard fact of his death, but to also, pretty much in the same breath, casually state that 'as per his wishes' his body had already been cremated and his ashes scattered on the wind, I...

A month on and the callousness still makes my breath catch in my throat.

And as for that 'as per his wishes' bullshit, that's just what it was, bullshit. Complete and utter fabricated, 'for whatever reason we've done what we set out to do and those that actually care can just suck it up' bullshit. The constant threat of it being a given, something we'd both accepted and made our peace with long before we'd even met, we never really spoke of dying. I still know, however, thanks to one near miss too many combined with a couple of drinks too many, that when the time came Ethan hoped to be buried in the Hunt family plot. Cremated or interred, he didn't really care about what happened to his body so long as, in one form or another, it was returned to his family. So... The whole 'ashes scattered on the wind' thing is just another in my long list of grievances I currently hold against IMF. I'm going to arrange for a plaque to be placed on his mother's tombstone, but it's nowhere near the same, and although there's not a damn thing I can do about it I'm still struggling with the... wrongness... of it all. Ethan gave – everything – so much to IMF that to have them treat his body as something merely to rid themselves of as quickly as possible, it just eats at me.

So, yeah, if the Secretary has had an attack of conscience and decided the time has come for formal recognition of some description, I'm just going to lose it. No agent would deserve it more, and I'm not saying others, those that speak of him in hushed, awe-struck terms and admire his skills and dedication from a distance, shouldn't get a chance to formally acknowledge his contributions, but, for me anyway, the damage has already been well and truly done and I can't... won't... have anything to do with it. If this further lowers the opinion of me that some might now have then, so be it. I have my – very personal – reasons for how I feel and that's simply all there is to it.

Besides, and this, ultimately, is all that really matters, Ethan would understand. For all his loyalty he was never just a mindless drone blinded by the IMF party line. He always did what he felt was in the best interests of those concerned and it didn't always neatly tally with the directive issued from above. Nowhere was that better demonstrated than nineteen months ago in London. The path I'd chosen, the one I felt I had no option open to me other than to choose, was directly contrary to our directions and Ethan, he...

He both ensured the right outcome, the one I was hell bent on, was achieved – only without either staining my hands in blood or essentially breaking orders – and effectively saved me from being taken hostage by my own demons.

To this very day I owe him for his kindness and determination to protect – what was left of – me from myself and know that I'll go to my grave still in his debt. Dutifully playing a part in any memorial won't change that and it's perhaps for that reason above all others that I can't bring myself to be involved.

Assuming that is, of course, that's what the Secretary's planning. Mind you, and, yes, I realise this is hypocritical and possibly even illogical of me, if it's... not... what he wants to see me about then that just may set me off anyway.

Maybe, having had so much time – on my own – to dwell on how both unfairly and incompetently everything's been handled, I'm just spoiling for a fight and regardless of what I'm about to walk in to the slightest thing will just send me over the edge anyway. It's not a nice thought, but, especially as I didn't ask to have any of this foisted on me, if it happens, it happens.

“Hey! Wake up back there,” either Smith or Jones – their cloning having been done so well they even sound the same – states as a hand reaches into the back of the car and roughly shakes my knee. “We're here.”

“Hallelujah,” I mutter, opening my eyes and gazing out the window at the building I'd hoped very much to never have to enter again. While never going to win any architectural awards, the IMF headquarters is nonetheless an imposing structure, one that I've never really paid any attention to and have always just taken for granted. Now though, as Jones opens my door and gestures impatiently for me to get out of the car, I can't stop staring at it as an... irrational... sense of panic threatens to overwhelm me.

I don't want to go in there.

I don't want to face the Secretary.

I don't want to have to watch what I say for fear of coming across as driven mad by grief and possibly even just that little bit paranoid.

I don't want... this. I don't want any of it.

“For Christ's sake, get out of the damn car already,” Jones complains as, taking matters into his own hands, he leans in through the door and releases my seat belt before grabbing my shoulders and hauling me out of the car. “I'm telling you, man, there's just something not quite right about you.”

“And, as I've already told you before,” I gasp, shaking off his grip and staring up at the building as it looms over me like a massive mausoleum, “if I wanted your fucking opinion I'd ask for it!”

“Whatever.” Shrugging, Jones rolls his eyes at Smith and points towards the entrance. “Go on. Surely you haven't forgotten where to go...”

“I...” My mouth suddenly feeling dry as my heart gives every impression of wanting to beat through my chest, I continue to gaze at the building and numbly shake my head. My mind racing in time with my heart, I want to run. Given the amount of traffic that is around, I could too. I could bolt across the road and just disappear. Smith and Jones would give chase but, loopy as I may be now, I'd still rate my skills above theirs and know I could get away. It mightn't be easy, but I could do it. Take my time, access my cache of alternate identities and cash, the one all agents have in seemingly random spots across the globe, and just... start afresh somewhere. It might even be what I need.

Keeping one eye on the traffic for just the right gap while keeping the other on my... babysitters... in case they see fit to grab me again, I'm still dithering over what to do when I hear a familiar female voice calling out my name. All the momentum leaving me, I turn to face the source of the voice just in time for Jane to run up and wrap her arms around me.

“Oh God, Will, it's so good to see you,” she murmurs in my ear as, my arms instinctively reaching around her back, we embrace tightly. “I... I didn't know if I'd ever get to see you again.”

“That makes two of us, actually,” I reply, the way our team was so unceremoniously disbanded in the aftermath of the explosion that took Ethan's life being yet another black mark against IMF as far as I'm concerned. I appreciate that families are important and that, as an only child whose parents are long dead, all they could do to me was leave me to my own devices, but to ship Jane and Benji directly into the arms of their families – who they hadn't seen in years and have to constantly conform to a carefully constructed lie in front of – without giving us a chance to say our goodbyes or to grieve together was just...

Again, it was callous.

Releasing me from the embrace, Jane, who I can see now doesn't look as though she's been sleeping much and who, in her – take me as I come – outfit of jeans and a black shirt, doesn't give any indication of caring anymore than I do, takes a step back and sighs. “You look like I feel,” she comments softly as, moving to my side, she links her elbow around mine and glances towards the building. “Got any idea what's going on here? If I hadn't responded to the order to get my ass to JFK this morning I suspect my two goons over there would have been reduced to making one hell of a scene on my brother's doorstep. As it was they clearly tracked my cab as they were waiting for me the second I got out of it.”

“So you got the ‘acceptance is non-negotiable’ summons too, then,” I respond, scowling across the lawn to where Jones and Smith are most likely sharing character-assassination stories with Jane's black-suited and, again, equally as blank-faced pair of agents. “And look, your bodyguards-slash-babysitters look just as intelligent and charismatic as mine.”

“Just... What's going on here, huh?” Jane repeats, giving me a worried look as, possibly unconsciously, she tightens her hold on my arm and presses her side against mine. “They expel us to the wilderness and now they want... what?” Sighing again, she frowns and shakes her head. “Actually, Will, and please don't take this the wrong way, you look worse than I feel. Are you sure you're okay? You're very pale and...”

“I'm not sure I even know what... okay... feels like anymore,” I interrupt softly as, by unspoken consent, we begin to walk towards the main entrance. “The loss of Ethan and how we've been treated, I can't... I... I'm just struggling to get my head around it, I think…”

“We all miss him, Will,” Jane murmurs, her eyes narrowing as she notices, despite the fact we're actually heading where they're wanting us to go, our babysitters get in step behind us. “I know it's hard, but you're not alone and if you hadn't unplugged your phone or had actually bothered to check your email, you'd know that. We, that is, Benji and me, we've been worried sick about you.”

“I...” Hanging my head in preference to both seeing the pain in Jane's expression and the pretentious brass framed doors I'd never wanted to walk through again, I jam my free hand in my pocket and whisper, “I'm sorry. I've been, and am still being selfish. Of course you miss him too. Just... I'm getting there and I'll be fine, honest.”

“Crap you're getting there,” Jane retorts firmly as she releases my arm and positions herself in front of me, “and, no, you're not being selfish. What you and Ethan had was special and neither my sense of loss or Benji's will ever be able to come close to it. We...” Blinking back tears, she returns to my side and this time takes my hand in hers. “We just have to stick together and do what we can to get through it.”

Entwining my fingers with Jane's, I dredge up a wan smile and nod. “We'll get there,” I murmur as the elevator doors open and the Secretary's personal assistant, Cameron Stanton, comes barrelling towards us. “Assuming, that is, we get through whatever the hell this is all about first.”

“Agents Brandt and Carter,” Stanton announces, looking us both up and down and, clearly not being all that enamoured with what he's seeing, pulling a face.

“If you so much as... contemplate... looking down your nose at either of us,” Jane states conversationally, “I'm going to break it and those sinus issues you spend all winter whining about will instantly become the least of your nasal-related problems. So...” Pausing, she flashes her best fake smile at the man as, taking her at her word, he takes a cautious step backwards. “What can we do for you, Stanton?”

“Not me, the Secretary,” Stanton mutters, keeping a watchful eye on Jane as he gestures us into the elevator before, with a nod, sending our babysitters on their way. “Oh, and before you ask,” he continues, walking into the lift and pressing the button for the top floor, “Agent Benjamin Dunn won't be joining us in person as he was unable to get a flight out of the UK in time and will be attending the meeting via video-link.”

Winking at me, Jane mutters, “Lucky Benji,” before falling silent and, squeezing my hand with an almost bruising intensity, staring at the floor numbers as they flash up on the electronic screen. Once the elevator has reached the Secretary's private floor at the top of the building, the doors slide silently open and Stanton, who I suspect would make a good butler, gestures for us to follow him through them.

Wanting a moment to compose myself, I pull my hand free from Jane's as she steps out of the elevator and have barely managed to run my fingers through my hair before Stanton is back in front of me, gesturing impatiently. “Agent Brandt, as we are already running a little...”

“Given that you know the Secretary's business as well as he does,” I interrupt, brushing his hand aside as I reluctantly walk onto the floor, “you already know that I'm no longer an agent, so...”

“Did you ever receive official recognition of your resignation?” Stanton queries, giving me a cunning look as, clearly having heard what I said, Jane stares at me wide eyed.

“Well, no. But...”

“Then until the Secretary accepts your resignation in writing, you're still an agent,” Stanton finishes smugly. “Nice try though. And you're right, I did read it. Nicely written it was too, definitely one of the better ones we've ever received.”

Firmly telling myself to count to ten before giving in to my sudden desire to introduce Stanton's weasel-like face to the wall, I concentrate on putting on a show of straightening my tie and have just made it to the number nine when the door to the Secretary's private conference room opens and the Secretary himself appears.

“Saved by the boss,” I murmur to Stanton before joining Jane and, this time taking the lead myself, placing my hand on her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. “I'll explain later. Just… Let's get this out of the way first and we'll talk afterwards.”

“Damn right we'll talk,” Jane mutters, shooting me what I can only translate as a disappointed look.

“Agents Brandt and Carter,” the Secretary, a distinguished looking man in his late fifties and who has the most British of penchants – despite being a native of New Orleans – for only ever wearing pinstriped suits in the office, states quietly as, pulling the door shut behind him, he meets us just outside the conference room. “Before we continue I just want to make it known that all of this was done without my knowledge and that the perpetrator has already been dealt with to the strongest of both my abilities and those of the law.”

“Sir?” More unsure than ever before in respect to where any of this could be going, I share a look with Jane and frown.

“Furthermore, I would just like to take the opportunity to apologise,” the Secretary continues, placing his hand on the door handle but clearly hesitating over actually opening it, “both for the anguish you've already suffered and for...” Trailing off, he straightens his shoulders, draws himself up to his full height and carefully looks first Jane and then myself in the eye. “I will admit there could possibly be better ways of going about this but, and I hope you can forgive me for having chosen this particular route, I decided that a... controlled... environment would be the best way to proceed as opposed to simply sharing the information over the phone or via an email.”

Reaching up, Jane places her hand over mine as it continues to rest on her shoulder. “Sir?” she murmurs enquiringly as she glances pointedly at the door handle. “I'm sorry, but...”

“I'm drawing out the inevitable, aren't I?” the Secretary interrupts with a grim smile. “Very well. I apologise again for how this was all handled, but...” Opening the door, he steps back to let us enter first and adds, “As you can see, that which you believed to be true, thankfully... isn't.”

“What is...” The rest of my question dying on my lips as, walking into the conference room and seeing for myself what the Secretary had been referring to, I come to a frozen stop in the middle of the doorway and just, no doubt with my mouth gaping open in shock, stare. I hear Jane whisper, “Oh my God', and a voice I never thought I'd hear again exclaim my name, but...

It's the most incredible thing. In fact, it's the sort of reaction I never in my wildest dreams would have even imagined possible, but... Caught in the grips of it as I am currently, I know it's not only possible but that it's also head-spinning, breath-restricting... horrific.

I...

I look at Ethan as he stands at the far end of the conference table and instead of feeling weak-at-the-knees relief all I feel is red-hot anger.

I've been in purgatory because I believed he was dead, yet all the time he's been...

I'm sure there's an explanation, probably even a well thought out and possibly even logical one, but, the damage having been spectacularly done, I don't want to hear it.

“Will!” Gently shaking off Jane who, not sharing my... disbelief and disappointment... at the gift the Secretary's given us, is crying tears of happiness and hugging him, Ethan steps around the table and begins to make his way towards me. “I can explain...”

“I...” It taking Ethan's hand reaching for my arm to finally return some semblance of life to me, I shake my head and, spinning around, bolt for the door. “I can't do this.”

“Will! Please... Come and sit down and we can explain...”

We... Meaning Ethan and the Secretary, two peas in the same – fucking with my head – pod.

Slamming on the brakes, I whirl around and, all the time breathing through my mouth as though I'd just ran a marathon, point my finger accusingly at Ethan. “Just... Don't!” I gasp, my gaze darting between Ethan, the elevator, and the door that leads into the stairwell. “I don't want to hear anything you have to say and am just going to leave, so... Trot back into the conference room like the good little agent you are and... leave me the fuck alone!”

“Will...” Sighing, Ethan holds his hand out towards me in a placating gesture. “I know this has come as a....”

“You don't know anything!” I shout as, my decision made, I inch towards the stairwell. “If you did you wouldn't have fucking faked your own death and left us alone in our cluelessness and... wasted grief! Just... I'm out of here. Oh... And, seriously, don't bother looking for me because I don't want to see you!”

“If you'd just calm down for...”

“Don't you dare tell me to calm down!”

“Will! I can explain.”

Shoving the door open with my shoulder, I pause in the doorway and give Ethan, who it appears I never really knew at all, a cold look. “Tell someone who cares.”

“I'll find you,” Ethan states matter-of-factly. “I'll find you, hell, I'll hunt you down if I have to, and I'll make you listen.”

Already having made the snap decision to put my earlier plan of disappearing once and for all into action, I shake my head and, as the door slowly closes behind me, murmur flatly, “Good luck with that.”

~*~

If either Smith or Jones this morning had muttered something along the lines of, “If you think things are strange now, just wait until, having had the carpet well and truly pulled out from under your feet, you discover where your day ends,” I would have laughed in their faces. Not having had anything to smile, let alone laugh about for so long I suspect it would have surprised me even more than it surprised them. Even so, the statement still would have been just cryptically stupid enough to make me do it.

Yet...

Here I am in a grotty Super 8 motel room in Fenton, St Louis. It's almost three in the morning and after having driven for thirteen hours I've ended up here for the sole reason of feeling as though the time had come to probably protect other road users and most likely wildlife as well from my increasingly erratic driving. I'm tired, slightly dehydrated and have a headache that could stop a rampaging bull elephant in its tracks. I'm also, now that I've stopped and no longer have my... disappearing act... to focus on, so wired that I can't sleep. Thoughts zip through my mind in a relentless loop and, regardless of how hard I try, I can't see any of them through to a logical conclusion. It's so frustrating that, despite having no ultimate destination – as, let's face it, 'anywhere other than Washington' leaves a lot of places to choose from – to head for and my reasons for having stopped in the first place not actually having changed, I almost wish I was still on the road as at least that way I'd have something... tangible... to focus on.

Behind the wheel of my drab Chevrolet Impala hire car I had both something to do and something to concentrate on. The same goes for the couple of hours I spent putting all my training to good use after bolting from the IMF building. Focussed on... blending in and laying false trails before simply... disappearing and accessing my cache of fake documents and cash, I didn't have to think about my reasons for why I was doing it, I just had to do it. Maybe it was overkill and maybe Ethan won't – and going on current form, why the fuck would he? – actually bother to look for me, but I simply don't care. Like just about every thought flying around in my head at the moment, I may not be able to explain or justify my decisions particularly clearly, but the thought of having to endure Ethan standing before me any time soon quite literally churns my stomach. So... If I have to disappear somewhere to lick my considerable wounds then, well, so be it. I'm not proud of myself, and my melodramatic reaction this morning is yet another low point in my life that I'd give anything to have permanently erased from my memory, but...

What's done is done.

Ethan's not dead. I spectacularly lost what little plot I had left. And now I'm in a suburb of St Louis with no clear idea as to just where it is I think I'm going or, for that matter, just what the hell it is I think I'm doing.

I also think I may well be at risk of my head exploding from the mass of confusing thoughts fighting for supremacy in it. Now that I've stopped – and why beat around the bush here by attempting to call it anything else – running, I'm a captive audience for them. They swarm, barely formed and frequently close to incoherent, without end. I'm usually a calm, thorough and logical person. I like brain teasers and I actually derive a sense of satisfaction that borders on pleasure when I manage to successfully unravel a problem.

Now, however...

Fuck.

If I'm lucky I get halfway through dot-pointing one of my... many... issues / questions / problems before another one just barges in and takes over. It's ridiculous. I can cope with intel coming at me from all directions, but this... This is something else.

… Ethan. He's still alive. Does this please me? Yes, of course it does. Do I still love him? Yes, and regardless of whatever else happens, part of me always will. Do I, however, trust him? Yes... and no. I no longer feel as though I can say with any confidence though that I know him. Not like I thought I did.

… In hindsight, do I regret my reaction and subsequent disappearing act? Again, yes... and no. It annoys and embarrasses me that I launched into such an irrational and over the top performance in front of both friends and the Secretary, but... I honestly don't think I could have coped with just sitting there and trying to calmly accept the – no doubt heartfelt and carefully worded – explanation as to why the past miserable month had been nothing more than a complete lie. On the other hand though... I should have stayed as that way I'd be aware of said explanation and would at least be able to put that particular set of questions to rest.

… And on that note, just what the fuck is going on, huh? And why was I kept in the dark about it? IMF playing their Goddamn cards close to their chest, despite the too loyal at times service I've given them over the years, I can just about understand. But Ethan? To both blithely and willingly go along with such a... cruel... act of deception, surprises as much as it dismays me. I thought we could – and did – share everything. Obviously though I was wrong. And, you know, what's so important that you risk the dynamic of your best team by completely fucking with their heads? All they, Ethan or the Powers That Be, had to do was take us aside, swear us to secrecy and lay the bare basics of why they felt as though they had to fake the death of our team leader in front of us. That's all. As nice as having them would have been, we wouldn't even have had to know all the details. Knowing that he was still alive and that his skills were simply needed elsewhere would have done. We'd have still been worried, yeah, but it wouldn't have been anywhere near the same as being literally torn apart and left to mourn on our own. As for setting up what I still believe was actually a real explosion? I don't even want to go there.

… Oh. As for 'going there'... Where exactly is it that I'm planning on going to? And what am I going to do when I get there? I can't hide forever and nor do I especially want to. Eventually I'll return to Washington if for no other reason than I have a house there. I may not be emotionally invested in it, but it's still either a base or a financial asset that needs to be disposed of accordingly and can't just sit there empty until the end of time. My job though... Will I, or should that be... can... I return to IMF? Things of course change – this morning's show and tell being harsh proof of that – but right now I think the answer would be... no. Liking the sense of purpose offered by either the role of analyst or field agent though, and not being able to just sit on my ass and do nothing, I could always shop my talents to the CIA... or FBI... or ATF. I could even possibly decide to pack up my bags and head for Europe and Interpol.

… But all that's a long way off. First I've got to decide where I'm going. It needs to be quiet and preferably off the beaten track. While I'm not worried about facial-recognition software picking me up and beaming the information back to IMF – if it happens, it happens... plus I'm still not convinced anyone would care enough to waste either the manpower or fuel to pick me up – I'm not exactly in the mood for company and know I'd be better off somewhere on my own. So… I'll... know it when I get there?

… And when I get there... Things will miraculously sort themselves out, everything will make perfect sense to me, my head will get screwed back on properly and... pigs wearing tutus will start flying backwards over Hawaii.

… Uh-huh. No comment.

… So... Where was I? That's right. When I set up camp in my mystery spot I'm going to do... everything I can to relax and take detailed stock of my life. I might even take pen to paper and start writing lists that, unlike all of these jumbled thoughts, I'll actually see through to the end.

… Or maybe I should give up now and just have a holiday. I could have a sad little solo adventure and drive Route 66 in my crappy little hire car.

… Just... Where the fuck did that come from?

… I shouldn't have ran. Dear God... Why did I run?

… Maybe I should phone Jane? She could explain what's going on to me... After, that is, tearing strips off me and making me promise to stay put so she could come and – save me from myself – pick me up.

…On second thoughts, calling Jane isn't a good idea at all. In fact, it's up there with the flying pigs and Route 66 for stupidity.

...Why can't I go to sleep? I'm tired. The obligatory couple having loud passionate sex on the other side of the wall have finally passed out from exhaustion and it's as quiet as it's ever likely to get in a Super 8 room, so... Just go to sleep, damn it!

...Ethan's alive!

…If I crawl back now with my tail between my legs perhaps the team can still work together and, by burying all of this mess in the back of my head I could pretend nothing had ever happened, and things could go back to normal, and... Look. There flies another pig.

… Enough with the pigs already!

… Why me?

… Yeah. Because lapsing in to self-pity is really going to achieve something.

…Why did Ethan do it? Does he not know me at all, or do I mean that little to him that he never paused to consider the impact it would have on me? I'm not like Ethan. I can't just switch off my feelings, harden my heart and resolve, and forge ever forward. Don't get me wrong, I totally get – and have indeed embraced – the unofficial IMF motto of 'Whatever It Takes'. You do either what you have to do, or, and, yes, there's a difference, what you... feel... that you have do. So... Is that it? Did he feel as though he had no other choice but to do it, or was he simply... made... to do it? Either way, what was it? What was it that made him turn his back on – me – his team?

...Was it his own holy grail, his own Chameleon? If it was, I'd understand. I'd have to.

… Whatever it takes. Faking your own death versus...

...Erato.

… Don't go there. Just... Don't go there.

...Too late.

…I'm there. Nineteen months on and, just like that, I'm back there. So far out of my depth that not even the so-called 'party drugs' in my system can successfully numb me in either mind or body. Naked. A body for invasive hands to roam indiscriminately. Tender flesh to be... taken... in any way... any one of them... saw fit. Gagging. Bleeding. No rights. No voice. Bound. A helpless toy for the rich, influential, and perverted. Not rape though. No. I'm a willing participant. I am. I want to be here. See? Look at the proof. Proof that I have no control whatsoever. I... I have to be here. Whatever it takes. I owe it to Palmer to bring Chameleon to justice. This is my – deserved – punishment. No-one's forcing me to be here. No-one's forcing me to open my mouth... No-one... Oh God, make it stop. Please. Just make it stop. I was... blinkered... arrogantly confident... wrong. I was wrong. I can't do this. Not this many. I... I just can't.

… Seriously. Just what is my fucking problem? Things are fucked – oh, the irony – enough without taking a detour down that particular very dark and very dingy memory lane.

…Is that what all of this is about though? Whatever it takes? Instead of... whoring... himself, did Ethan – temporarily – have to kill himself to achieve his ultimate goal? It... It would, after all, make as much sense as anything.

…Ethan. You put me back together again after Erato only to... do this to me now?

…I don't understand.

…I don't understand any of it.

_~*~_

_“I... Oh God... I'm sorry... Just... Fuck!” Forgetting that my pyjama pants are still pooled around my feet, I very nearly trip over them in my haste to get away and have to waste a few precious seconds stepping fully out of them before stumbling over to the bed and sinking down on to the edge of it. With my breath catching in my throat and my heart pounding, I feel as though I'm having a panic attack and, shakily digging my elbows into my knees, bury my face in my equally as shaky hands. “I... Just give me a minute and I... I'll be fine. I... I will. Just...”_

_“You won't, you know,” Ethan interrupts softly as, seemingly out of nowhere, he drapes a large mink-feel blanket around my shoulders and very carefully pulls it securely around me. “Come on, Will,” he continues, crouching down in front of me. “Look at me. It's okay...”_

_No. It's not. It really isn't okay and I don't know what my Goddamn problem is._

_I want Ethan. I've wanted him for months. Ever since, in fact, he very kindly and very sincerely brushed aside my ludicrous 'I feel as though I owe you so, having no other way I can think of repaying you, how about I blow you' offer in London four months ago. It wasn't, let's face it, my finest moment and I wouldn't even want to be ever reminded of it if not for how Ethan reacted. Instead of either accepting, because, hey, it was on offer and he could, or making me feel like a seriously delusional – whore – fool, he calmly took charge and effortlessly smoothed the moment over as I swear only Ethan can. He didn't think I was mad or... disgusting... and, miracle of miracles, he actually wanted me too, only... Not then and not like that. We needed to wait until he felt I actually wanted him for reasons of actual desire as opposed to simply wanting to offer... payment of a perceived debt._

_As potentially cringe-worthy and embarrassing moments go, it turned out close to perfect in the end._

_Now though... That cringe-worthy and embarrassing moment is nothing compared to... this... cringe-worthy and embarrassing moment and I have no idea how I'm going to successfully get myself out of it._

_“I...” Dropping one hand away from my face, I clench my fingers in the soft fur of the blanket and pull it even more tightly around me until only my neck and head are showing. “I don't know what's wrong with me,” I whisper lamely, keeping my head lowered and hiding my eyes behind my other hand._

_“I do,” Ethan replies quietly as, somehow managing to find my knee amongst all the folds of the blanket, he gives it a quick squeeze before standing up and adding, “Just... It’s okay. I'll go put something on.”_

_“No...” Feeling as though my clearly deep seated issues have ruined everything, I sigh heavily and shake my head. “You don't have to. I can still...”_

_I can still... What exactly? Suddenly grow a pair? Take back time? Erase my treacherous and downright inconvenient memory? Stop being so fucking precious and pathetic? Accept the obvious – this is Ethan, you irrational moron. Ethan. Who you want and, although you've clearly forgotten it already in your freak out, you know full well would never hurt you – and embrace the moment? Win the jackpot and disappear into thin air?_

_“Given that I would never put anything past you when determination kicks you,” Ethan murmurs as he sits down on the mattress next to me, “you most likely could. But... you're not going to, though.”_

_“I'm fine,” I mutter stubbornly even though we both know it's a complete and utter lie. Sneaking a sideways glance at Ethan from between my fingers, I see that he's pulled his boxers and t-shirt back on and the sense of... failure... this installs in me is quite incredible._

_Can't do anything right. Can't even do what I want to do. Can't indulge in something as simple as love-making with someone I genuinely care about and who I've been waiting impatiently for without both suddenly and randomly losing it._

_It had all been going fine, too. Better than fine even. The perfect, if not a little surreal moment under the stars when Ethan translated the fact that I'd followed him into the close to freezing night air clad only in my pyjamas was actually the sign that he finally knew I really wanted him. The light hearted banter, teasing and laughter that followed. The comfort and... anticipation. The kissing and embracing, his body warm against mine and the sweet intensity of our lips pressed moistly together. I was even fine when, already down to his boxers, he stripped off my long-sleeved t-shirt and pressed his bare flesh against mine._

_Then..._

_Logically, I knew – or should have known – it was entirely different. I was in control. I wanted Ethan and knew that I was safe in his hands. He was only one man, one I both knew and trusted, not... a stranger or merely one of many. I even felt a tremor of pleasure work its way through my body when I closed my hand around his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers and felt it twitch and grow at my tentative touch. Emboldened by this and wanting to see him in all his naked glory, I was working on getting the boxers off..._

_When..._

_As I should have been expecting, he – reciprocated – pushed my pyjama pants down, went to take my cock in his hand, and..._

_That was it._

_Game over._

_I can touch, but I don't want... to be touched in return._

_Which is fucking stupid._

_This isn't Erato. It was four months ago anyway and... I just can't comprehend why I'm reacting like this._

_“I'm fine,” I repeat as, pulling my hand away from my face I force myself to both sit up a little straighter and, although it's just about the last thing I feel like doing, look at Ethan. “And... I can do this. I... want... to do this. Just... Let me. I can make you feel...”_

_“Shhh...” His expression as kindly as it is concerned, Ethan inches closer and waits until I'm reluctantly looking him in the eye before murmuring, “Now... Is it okay if I put my arm around you or would you prefer it if I just kept my hands to myself for the time being?”_

_Relieved that what he's asking is something I can easily assent to, I nod and, all the time keeping a grip on my – security – blanket, close the remaining distance between us by shuffling along the mattress. “I... I'd like that, actually,” I whisper as, immediately draping his arm around my shoulders, I relax against Ethan and gaze down at the general vicinity of my knees. “Just... Thank you. I know I've disappointed you...”_

_“You haven't disappointed me,” Ethan murmurs, cutting me off as he begins to rub my upper arm through the blanket's fur. “So... Shhh... Don't even go there.”_

_Don't go there? Too late. I'm there._

_“Of course I've disappointed you. It's okay though, if it helps I've disappointed myself too, so... I can take it.”_

_“You haven't... Hell, you could never disappoint me. I'm... upset... that what you put yourself through is still hanging over your head, but I'm not disappointed at... this...” Pausing, he kisses the top of my head. “You're still here and, as you keep saying, you'll be fine. What happened to you that night...”_

_“I should be over it,” I mutter, not wanting to hear Ethan mention anything about that Godforsaken night. It's bad enough he knows – what little he does – about what occurred that night without him giving voice to it. “I... I thought I was. I never expected... that... to happen. You've got to believe that I wanted this, that I've wanted it, you... I've wanted you, since London. I... I just don't know what's wrong with me.”_

_“Nothing's wrong with you,” Ethan replies adamantly as he continues to gently rub my arm. “Flashbacks are common after...”_

_“But I don't want them!”_

_“I don't want you to have them either and would give anything to be able to protect you from them, but...”_

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained... Right? “Perhaps we should just try again?” I offer as, finally releasing my grip on the blanket, I place my hand over Ethan's and press down on it. “I know what my problem is now and could...”_

_“We're not going to try again tonight,” Ethan states with a soft smile as, removing his arm from around my shoulders, he slowly stands up. “Nothing's changed between us, Will. You're still the one I want and I'll wait for you for however long it takes for you to feel comfortable. Now, however, as we have to get up in a few short hours to pick that asshole up from the airfield, we need to get some sleep.” Bending down, he retrieves my pyjama pants from the floor and holds them towards me. “Here. Put these back on and, assuming you're okay with it, of course, let's just go to bed.”_

_Taking the pyjamas, I meet Ethan's gaze and, marvelling at his apparent innate ability to gently take charge and effectively protect me from myself, slowly nod. “I'd like that,” I whisper. And I would, too. I'd like it a lot. “I... I'm still sorry though.”_

_“I'm not,” Ethan replies, instinctively turning his back to me so I can pull my pants on without feeling as though I've got an audience. “Not in the way I suspect you're thinking, anyway,” he continues. “I'm sorry that it ever happened to you and I wish you didn't feel this way, but... You don't have to apologise because, and you've got to believe me, Will, you've got absolutely nothing to apologise for. We just have to be patient and I know we'll get there.”_

_Dropping my blanket, I quickly pull my pyjama pants on before walking up behind Ethan and, sliding my arms around his waist, pressing my chest up against his back. “I don't know what I'd do without you,” I murmur. “It must be a gift or something because you always know how to get through to me.”_

_“It's a good job then that I plan to always be here for you and have no intention of going anywhere,” he replies, carefully turning around and hugging me back. “Now... Come on. If you're sure you're okay with this, with sharing a bed, let's get some sleep.”_

_“I'm sure.” Kissing his cheek, I pull back from Ethan and, to his obvious surprise, very quickly pull his t-shirt over his head. “It's okay,” I add with a smile as, flicking the switch to turn the overhead light off, I grab his hand and drag him over to the bed. “I know what I'm doing.”_

_“So long as you're sure,” Ethan responds dubiously. “I just don't want you to...”_

_“Trust me.”_

_“Mmm...”_

_Letting go of his hand in order to climb separately into bed, I pull the bedding up to my chin and, the second he's joined me on the mattress, shift over to meet him. “Bare skin, that's all,” I state, stifling a yawn as I drape my arm over his chest and make myself comfortable against him. “I mean... We've got to start somewhere...”_

_“I like the way you think,” Ethan replies with a warm chuckle as he settles against me and rests his hand over mine. “Now... Everything's okay, Will, you'll see.”_

The dream, a step by step replay of that special – for Ethan's easy, reassuring acceptance as opposed to what it ideally should have been – night at Panguitch Lake fifteen months ago dissolving into a fine, lingering mist as I wake with a start in my miserable little motel room, I sit up and...

Call it an epiphany or yet another random act of stupidity or whatever, but...

Just like that, I suddenly know where it is I'm going.

~*~

If I don't think about anything else and simply focus on the immediate task at hand I can almost kid myself that I'm actually as close to content as I'm ever likely to get at the moment. That, or I'm so tired that I'm not just going through the motions, I'm actually... sleep-walking... through them. It's okay though as I'm... okay. I am. While I mightn't be any closer to knowing any of the answers I so desperately seek, I still feel considerably better than I did thirty or so hours ago.

I managed, with only two brief naps behind the wheel in truck stops along the way, to drive the twenty hours from St Louis to Panguitch Lake without either killing myself or – far more importantly – anyone else and I'm now here at the cabin. For no other reason than I know I have to eat – even if it is just about the last thing I feel like doing – I even took a trip out to the local general store shortly after arriving and the cabin's small kitchen in now stocked with more food than I suspect I'll ever need. Not quite being able to bring myself to use the same bed I – we – did last time, I've made the bed up in the master bedroom and am actually looking forward to tumbling into it.

The general store being one of those sorts of places that needs to cater for just about everyone and everything, I found a black leather bound journal nestled on the same shelf as the pasta sauce – you know, as you do – and it's now sitting on the coffee-table in the living room waiting for the moment when I feel up to starting the no doubt lengthy process of attempting to write out my thoughts. Not, God forbid, 'Dear Diary, my life sucks and I'm now going to go into tedious detail as to why', but lists and dot points and all the other note taking methods I have to work my way through problems. A computer or tablet will do at a pinch but, just call me old-fashioned, I've always preferred to problem-solve with pen and paper and really hope that this doesn't prove to be first time it lets me down.

Although I'm still not sure if coming all the way out to Panguitch Lake, to a place of happy memories, was a sensible, let alone good idea, now that I'm here and have more or less got myself settled, I'm... glad... that this is where I ended up. It over two thousand miles away from D.C., it's, save for the large barn type structure on the dirt road leading up to the cabin and which I don't recall having noticed last time, incredibly private and, best of all, it's quiet. While I'm not much of a nature lover and actually prefer the convenience of large cities, I can appreciate the cabin for both its extremely picturesque location and its tranquillity. If I knew how to fully relax I could even possibly contemplate spending a week here just exploring the woods and the lake. For now though it's just a private base, somewhere for me to get my head on straight before facing up to the mess back in D.C., and nothing more.

The cabin's IMF connection being thankfully a limited one, my presence here should go unnoticed back at HQ so long as I don't access the cache hidden behind the bathroom mirror. Rarely having any use for agents in this part of Utah, it's kept on the books solely as a backup base and for most of the time it's actually just let out as a holiday rental. The usual cache of weapons and documents and the like – all the tools of the trade, in other words – is maintained and protected, but that's about it as far as IMF's interest in the location goes. If I cracked upon the cache alarm bells would ring back in the monitoring section of headquarters but if I leave it alone – as I very much intend to – I should be fine. The owners believe my name is Trevor Jenkins, an accountant from Chicago whose credit rating checked out and should anyone in IMF be bored enough to look into the current resident of the cabin that's all they'd see too. In a way it's ironic, but our training is actually good enough to allow us to create fully backstopped fake identities that not even our best experts can crack.

So... I'm here, I've got everything I think I need and tomorrow morning, after what I really hope is a good night's sleep, I'll pick up my journal and get on with sorting myself out.

Glancing at my watch, I read that it's almost seven in the evening and decide that I'll make myself something to eat before staying up for maybe another hour or so and then just calling it a night. The driving having taken it out of me, I feel ready for bed now but, wanting to get my body clock back into some sort of normal rhythm, know that I need to stay up for at least a little longer. Standing up, I push the chair back under the table and stretch the kinks out of my body for a couple of minutes before turning my thoughts to food. Having existed on more junk food the last couple of days than I reckon I've eaten during the past twelve months, I've just settled on the idea of knocking up a simple pasta dish when I hear the decidedly unexpected sound of a car being driven up to the cabin.

Immediately on alert, I bite back a heavy sigh as, all thoughts of food up and leaving me, I walk out of the kitchen and make my way to the front door. Not seeing any reason to apply caution to my unwanted – and, seriously, what is it about me and my wish to be left alone being viewed as some sort of cosmic joke or open invitation to visit – guest as he or she isn't making any attempt to sneak up to the cabin, I turn the porch light on, wrench open the door and...

Oh yeah. Cosmic fucking joke had nothing on it. There's just no help for it. Obviously whichever deity it was I happened to piss off in a former life is the sort to bear one hell of a grudge.

“You've got to kidding me,” I complain as, folding my arms across my chest, I position myself in the middle of the doorway and glare at Ethan, who, looking I have to admit as surprised as I feel, just happens to be standing next to a black Chevrolet Suburban. “How'd you find me, huh?” I continue querulously as, seemingly frozen to the spot, he stares back at me. “What? Don't look at me like that, like you didn't know you’d find me here!”

Shaking his head, Ethan takes a hesitant step towards me before turning around and retrieving a briefcase from the backseat of the SUV. “Will,” he murmurs at last as, shutting the car door, he flashes me a cautious smile and begins to walk towards the cabin. “You probably won't believe me...”

“You're right,” I snap, cutting him off and standing my ground in the doorway, “I don't believe you.”

“I didn't know you were here,” Ethan continues with a weary sigh. “I hoped...”

“Crap!” Noticing, now that he's closer and I can see him clearly under the porch light, that he looks tired – not the usual, post-mission tired, but bone achingly exhausted – I forcefully ignore an instinctive twinge of concern and repeat, “How'd you find me, huh?”

“I didn't...” Sighing again, Ethan places his briefcase on the doormat and runs his fingers through his hair. “And if you'd just let me finish...”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“That's not letting me finish.”

“Fine...”

“Whatever. I get it.”

“Don't start with me!” I'm tired, I'm unsettled and I don't know what's bothering me more - how tired and miserable Ethan looks or how much I suddenly want to push everything else aside and just hug him.

“I'm not starting with you, Will,” Ethan murmurs, “but nor do I have it in me to fight, so... Either listen or don't as I'm going to keep talking whether you actually want to hear a word I say or not. So... Here goes... I'm here because, having had enough of both meetings and apologies I felt as though I just had to get away.”

“And you just happened...”

“And I just happened, as apparently you did too, to decide here would be the ideal place. It's private, holds good mem...”

“Don't! Just... Don't pretend to care now!” Here I go again. Just add Ethan to the mix and I automatically deteriorate into an irrational, ranting banshee.

“I'm not pretending and if you'd just calm down for a second you'd know that,” Ethan states as, giving every indication of not being at all bothered by my rude, defensive behaviour, he flashes me a gentle smile. “Now... Just listen to what I'm saying. I'm here because I needed to get away. I'll admit a part of me hoped that we might have been on the same wavelength and that there was a small chance I'd find you here, but... To be perfectly honest here I wasn't exactly holding my breath. You'd done such an incredible job of... disappearing... that I quite literally had no idea where you could have got to. I managed to track you across D.C. for close to an hour after you flew out of HQ and then... nothing. You were just gone.”

“Just not... gone... far enough away,” I mutter, rubbing my left temple with my fingers and giving Ethan a beseeching look. “Look... I can't do this. Not yet. It... It's too soon. I came here to think and sort myself out, not to... get cornered. I... I believe you that you coming here is just... bad luck, but...”

“I wouldn't call it that,” Ethan interrupts, his smile broadening. “In fact, I think it's pretty good luck. When I drove up I'll admit to actually crossing my fingers that...”

“Don't,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Please, don't... I... I'm just not ready. I want to be, but I'm not and... I'm sorry, Ethan. I can't do this.”

“No.” Sighing, Ethan picks up his briefcase and holds it out towards me. “I'm the one who should be apologising. I've put you on the spot and I should go and... uh... I will go, but... I'm too tired to drive and need to have a quick sleep. But... It's okay. I can sleep in the car and...”

“No. You can't,” I murmur as, stepping back to let him inside, I take the briefcase and shrug. “Just because I'm not ready to talk to you yet doesn't mean I'm just going to let you sleep in your car. So... Come inside and get some sleep.” Pausing, I glance down at the briefcase. “Oh... And, this is what exactly?”

“The contents explain everything about... the mission.” Walking into the cabin, Ethan, who's either even more tired than I think or is simply wanting to take his limited victory and run with it without making a fuss, makes a beeline for the stairs and adds over his shoulder, “You don't have to read it. I just thought... Well, obviously I had more faith in finding you here than I was willing to admit to myself because I brought it with me in the hope of being able to show you proof that I... I didn't know, that I'd never...”

“You need to get some sleep.” It all finally reaching the point of being just too much for my – stretched thin enough as it is – mind to deal with, I drop the briefcase onto the floor and, suddenly feeling as though I have to get away, start to walk out the door. “I... I'm just going for a walk but... uh... don't worry, I… I'll be back...”

My admittedly abrupt piece said, I leave the cabin without waiting for a reply of any description and quickly head along the dirt track that leads directly down to Panguitch Lake. As I'm rapidly becoming used to, I have no specific destination in mind and just want to get away from Ethan before I fall into the – too tired and overly emotional – trap of saying something I just know I'd only regret. It's not even that I'm seeing red over his completely unexpected arrival and the way, just like that, all my carefully laid plans, the ones I'd been feeling a small degree of satisfaction for finally having settled on, are already a thing of the past. If he leaves immediately after his nap, how can I just get up in the morning and – indulge my OCD tendencies that Benji's absolutely convinced I have to have – start my all very logical dot-pointing when in the back of my head I won't be able to escape the small fact that, if I had any sense, I would have made the most of his presence and demanded answers directly from the source. And, if he does stay, how on earth am I going to be able to... convey... the hell he's put me through without running the risk of giving him the idea that the kindest thing he could for me would be to shoot me with a tranquiliser dart. I'm over these... melodramatic... turns I seem to default to this week and wish everything could just be neatly handed to me on a platter.

Or...

Neatly contained within a briefcase.

Reaching the fallen log that I found Ethan sitting on and just marvelling at the night sky all those months ago, I sink down onto it and rub my hands over my face. Could it really be that easy? Could Ethan really have come here – on the same day I actually arrived, what's more – without fully expecting to find me here, and... could all of my desperately sought answers be in that briefcase? And, if they are, should I just dutifully read them for myself, or should I put Ethan on the spot and demand that he explain everything to me? Having Ethan talk his way out of it of course runs the risk of yet another Drama Queen Moment, but just reading it all for myself almost feels like a cop out, like he doesn't... want... to have to explain it all to me.

But, on the other hand, answers are still answers. And I really both want and... need... answers if I'm going to have any hope of this mess ever making any sense to me.

Sighing, I rest my palms on the log and, leaning back, gaze up at the beautiful night sky. The sight of so many bright stars can't help but take me back to that night I found Ethan out here and the memory, special as it is, actually brings a much needed smile to my lips.

He's alive. He's here.

And, what's more, I'm glad that he's here. I really am. Instead of having – the knee-jerk, huffing and puffing on the doorstep aside – another meltdown I feel surprisingly calm and possibly even the tiniest bit hopeful. Yes, he's thrown everything – yet again – into disarray and forced my hand, but, who knows, perhaps that's exactly what I needed. I mean, let's face it, it's not as though I've got particularly far with working things out on my own and Ethan has always been very good at working out what's in my best interests while I'm still dithering and dallying around.

In fact, ever since London here's always been there for me. If I needed him, he was there. If I was unaware that I needed him or was doing my utmost best to pretend that I wasn't actually in need of him at all, he was still there. After the 'don't touch me there!' debacle that night in the cabin, instead of – coming to his senses – just writing me off as some sort of mentally disturbed bad joke, he took it all in his stride and never once did anything to make me feel worse about my new and unexpected... issue... than I already did. He wouldn't even let me – despite my best, pushy 'I can do this, for God's sake just let me fucking get it over and done with!' attempts – speed things along.

Shocked, embarrassed and just a touch mortified as well by my reaction, the one that I'd never, not once considered as a possibility, I wanted to forge ahead and get right back on that bicycle, so to speak, as quickly as possible. It wasn't, after all, supposed to be like that. I wanted Ethan. I'd wanted him for months and had even enjoyed the occasional fantasy – that, okay, in hindsight had never got as far as installing any physical reaction in me and which in itself should have set off a few warning bells if I'd actually bothered to acknowledge it – in which he'd played a starring role. Sex was, or should have been, just sex, something I'd had no issues with for over twenty years. I wasn't a shy virgin, I was experienced, I wanted it, and... Goddamn it, I was over what happened at Erato! Four, actually quite pleasant, months had passed since that night and I wasn't even thinking about it anymore. The nightmares had stopped, the injuries had all faded, and I was fine. I felt fine, life was fine, and... lurking just beneath my surface were a whole bunch of heavily repressed memories just biding their time and looking for the right moment to make themselves known.

What happened that night in Erato was, I have to admit, far worse than I'd ever expected it to be. I'd done the research, brushed off Kirby's concerns with a blithe, somewhat arrogant declaration of being no stranger to gay sex and, in my head at least, was so focussed on getting Chameleon that there wasn't a damn thing I wouldn't have volunteered to do to achieve it. It didn't matter that the closest I'd ever come to group sex was a failed – courtesy of the third party being so drunk that not only couldn't they get it up but they then fell asleep and snored so loudly that it just killed the moment for everyone – threesome in college. Nor did it matter that the S&M scene was so far removed from what I considered a good time that I'd never even bothered to experiment with handcuffs before. I wanted Chameleon and I was both prepared and willing to do whatever it took to get him. Besides, I'd seduced people I would have crossed the street to avoid if not for IMF forcing my hand before, so... What was the difference? One person you'd actually prefer to not have touching you versus a couple of people?

Stupidly, I couldn't see much of a difference.

I was, however, wrong. Very wrong.

Too appalled by both what was happening and by the obvious betrayal – to hell with the logic of it being nothing more than a physical reaction, something I had no control over. It looked like I was enjoying it and that... That just made it worse – of my own body, I deliberately didn't keep count of the men. I just... went with the flow. It wasn't like I had any choice and, again, there was no escaping the fact that I had no one to blame for my predicament other than myself. Kirby had wanted to find another way but, wanting it just over and done with and the bastard tagged, I insisted on going down – and, once more, the irony, it fucking burns – the Erato route.

And... It worked.

I achieved my goal of tagging Chameleon. I also learnt – and how's this for a sick and twisted silver lining, one you never really want to have cause to brag about – that there's not a single fucking thing I can't stick in my mouth if I'm determined enough. It almost, not that size, gratifyingly, had anything to do with it, nearly choked me, but I did it and finally it was all over.

The way my – always so rational and clinically clever – mind had it all neatly worked out was that I'd do what I had to do and that would just be it, game over. I never, not for a blinkered second, ever thought that it would effect me in any way or that it would... continue... to effect me. Yes, I allowed horrible things to happen to me, but they were over now and life could just go on.

Right?

Or, as the case happened, wrong.

When Ethan went to touch my cock that night and my mind took me immediately back to all the faceless men and all their invasive hands at Erato, I honestly couldn't believe it. It shouldn't have been like that at all. Those memories had no place... ever raising their ugly head, let alone during such an intimate moment. It was... pathetic. I felt pathetic and wouldn't have blamed Ethan for a second if he'd decided then and there – that I wasn't worth it – to cut his losses and run. If I was going to either break down or shut down when he went to touch me, where was the... fun... in that?

In typical Ethan fashion though he just accepted my latest... peccadillo... and during the following weeks set about working his way around it. Brushing off all my concerns, apologies and impatience, he both very carefully and very thoroughly worked out what – didn't set me off – I could cope with and simply went from there. Fully clothed, anything was fair game. Embracing, sitting too close together, arm around either waist or shoulder, kissing. Naked from the waist up, ditto. Fully naked however, despite my best intentions to just – no pun intended – suck it up, not so much and, be it by either flinching or sucking my breath in, I kept giving the game away. Instead of looking disappointed – or over it – though, Ethan always managed to smooth the moment over and he never once gave the impression that I wasn't worth all the effort or that he was reaching the end of his tether. Thankfully it took less than a month for him to come up with the idea of trying out the shower for something different – warmth, water, confined space that so long as I was closest to the door didn't feel small at all – and once that particularly glorious hurdle had been cleared I've been predominantly fine ever since.

So... Yes. Ethan. He's always been there for me and I owe him a lot.

Sighing again, I drag my thoughts back to the here and now and, glancing towards the cabin, quickly reach the conclusion that as lovely as it is gazing up at the stars it's not getting me any closer to the answers I need and that the time has come to give into curiosity and crack open Ethan's briefcase. I mightn't like what it is I'm about to find out, but at least I'll hopefully learn just what it was that possessed Ethan to do what he did and... It'll be a start.

A start that, there being no time like the present, may as well... start... now.

Decision made, I stand up and return to the cabin. Retrieving the briefcase from the floor just inside the door, I walk into the kitchen and grab myself an apple from the bowl on the bench before heading into the living area and taking a seat on the sofa. Placing the briefcase on the coffee-table, I open it up and, as I take a bite out of the apple, lift out a ring bound document from inside and place it on my lap. Flipping open the blank cover to the first page, I see a photo of Joshua Wiseman, the Operational Manager from our last – the one that ended in the explosion – mission, and the large, red 'Disavowed' stamp placed over his face very nearly causes me to choke on my mouthful of apple.

Wiseman's been disavowed? Why?

I didn't know the man very well, and maybe I'm being too harsh on him, but he always struck me as being... uninteresting. A tall, slightly cadaverous looking man with gaunt cheeks and deeply sunken eyes, if I had any opinion on him at all it would have been that he looked as though he should have been on his death bed. Unhealthy appearance aside though he was perfectly unremarkable. Quietly spoken, respected well enough but deeply private and seemingly without any friends in the office, he kept to himself, did what was expected of him, and... That was pretty much all anyone ever really knew about him. He wasn't the team's usual Operational Manager and was only acting in the position due to Edward Fischer – the quite lovely but long suffering... sucker... usually charged with trying to hold Ethan's reins – having had a very much out of the blue heart attack. In fact, our last mission was the only one Wiseman had been involved with. We met in a conference room, he laid out the details of the mission, Ethan – who it just has to be said doesn't like change very much – scowled at him and seemed far more interested in finding out when Fischer was likely to return than in the specifics of the mission, and that... was basically the end of our involvement with him. He didn't even come to the hospital after the explosion and, if I remember correctly, it was the Secretary's toady minion, Stanton, who delivered the news of Ethan's death to me.

Wiseman. He was a nobody. Wasn't he?

Forgetting about the apple, it slips from my fingers and although I hear it land on the floor I make no move to pick it up as my attention is snared hook, line and sinker by reading the document on my lap. When I've finished, having read it cover to cover and quite a few pages twice, just so I can be clear on all the... heinous... specifics, I throw it back into the briefcase with disgust and, not wanting to see it for a second longer, slam the case closed before shoving the whole thing off the coffee-table and onto the floor.

I'm so...

Fuck!

I don't even know what I am.

Angry? Horrified? Speechless with disbelief, contempt and disgust? Distraught? Numb?

All of the above, plus a few more emotions that I can't even think of at the moment because, yet again, I'm struggling to be able to think straight?

I...

I just don't fucking believe it. No. That's not true. I believe it because the document is an official one and bears the Secretary's signature. I also believe it because the world is full of desperate assholes who will stop at nothing to get what they want. What I don't believe is how the selfish actions of one person can have such far reaching consequences...

No. Wait. Who am I kidding. I believe that too.

IMF wouldn't exist if not for all the greedy, self-absorbed pricks out there with designs on either taking over the world or doing as much damage as possible to as many as they can manage. Said pricks, however, just aren't usually on their payroll, that's all.

Resting my head back on the sofa, I stare up at the ceiling and sigh heavily. Everything makes as much sense as it's capable of making now and, yes, it makes all the difference, but...

What a mess.

Lady Luck being no friend of Wiseman's, his very much ill-advised hobby of gambling heavily on the horses had got him into close to a million dollars worth of debt to an Eastern European gang. Self-preservation making him want to save his own ass, he stupidly agreed to do the gang a 'favour' in exchange for having his debt wiped and... That's how we all inadvertently got involved. The main, highly lucrative source of income for Gang A, the one with a sideline in money lending, was a people smuggling ring based in Romania. Much to their annoyance however, Gang B, although actually physically based in Bucharest, were wanting to muscle in on their people smuggling territory and, not being ones for competition, they wanted them to – fuck off and die – go away. Now, seeing a perfect... source... in Wiseman to make such a thing happen, Gang A charged him with the debt-clearing task of ridding Romania of Gang B. Which, seeing as IMF take a dim view of people smuggling would have actually been fine, only...

In his 'oh fuck, what have I done?' panic, Wiseman decided to not make the mission an official one. No. That would have been too easy. Instead of setting the analysts on the task and writing up a mission brief before selecting a team and just sending them in, Wiseman decided to... dig himself into an even greater hole and simply go the 'unofficial' route. Wanting the best though, he wanted Ethan for the task and decided that the best way to get him would be to just... blow up his team.

You know, as you do.

The report's unclear as to whether the rest of us were just meant to conveniently die or not but, ultimately it didn't matter because Wiseman had that particular contingency covered too.

Blow the team up to get your guy. Once guy is successfully obtained, place an unidentifiable corpse – kindly provided by your friendly neighbourhood Eastern European gang – in his place, ensure that a carefully falsified will is found that instructs that his body is to be cremated, and, voilà, step one of your dastardly plan is complete. IMF think he's dead. His team think he's dead and, because they're just loyal enough to possibly prove pesky, they've been further dealt with by, all in the name of their best interests of course, being sent ‘home’ and kept out of the way.

As for the guy – and it's this... attention to detail... that hurts the most – just keep him closeted away, tell him that his entire team is dead, that Gang B is to blame and that, if he felt up to it, the solo mission to Bucharest to bring them to justice was his if he wanted it.

Just... It defies belief.

Ethan, believing that we were dead and accepting Wiseman's – offer of revenge – explanation, fell for the trap and dutifully went off to Romania. Where, of course, after three weeks of extremely hard work, he was able to bring Gang B down before handing what was left of their... interests... over to the United Nations to shut down once and for all. Wanting to tie up all the loose ends – it wouldn't, after all, have done to have Ethan triumphantly stroll back into headquarters given that everyone had reluctantly accepted than he was dead – Gang A stepped up to the plate and sent an assassin after him to, this time for real, finish him off. Somehow cottoning on to this, Ethan escaped the assassin, made his way back to D.C., got in contact with the Secretary and – once the Secretary had accepted that he was indeed still alive and that wool had definitely been pulled over everyone's eyes – together they unravelled the details of Wiseman's disgusting plan.

What goes around comes around though and Wiseman, just for the cherry on top of being disavowed and formally charged, is now public enemy number one with what's left of Gang A as, not feeling too kindly towards them after having been so thoroughly played, the Secretary promptly sent Ginsburg's team after them and they're now almost as much a part of history as their enemy, Gang B, is.

So... It's over. I have my answers.

Wiseman will pay for his crimes and the world, all thanks to a gambling debt and greed, is rid of two people smuggling rings. We were all just pawns in a greater game and, albeit not for the want of trying, we're all still alive. All the grief, anger and doubt I suspect we've all been through was solely as a result of another's foible and should never ever have happened. I understand Wiseman's desperation, and I know all too well the... evil... people are capable of, but... It's like a fanciful plot of a bad movie. All the right elements are certainly there. Rogue agent. Gangs. Double crossing. Revenge. Highly detailed, somewhat over the top plan.

A happy ending for the hero?

Knowing what I need to do, that I can’t just sit here fuming, I stand up and turn the overhead light off before ensuring that the front door is locked and making my way quietly up the stairs. Finding Ethan asleep in the same room we slept in last year, I strip down to my boxers on the landing before sneaking through the door and very gingerly climbing into bed next to him. Dead to the world, he confirms my earlier suspicion of being clearly exhausted by not waking at my arrival and, emboldened by this, I set about gently pushing and prodding him until I'm pressed up tight against his back and have my arm draped over his waist. Comfortable, I close my eyes and, for the first time in close to five incredibly long and hard weeks, finally feel at peace.

~*~

I wake to both sunlight streaming in through the uncovered window and the – welcome – sight of Ethan lying, half propped up by his elbow pressed into the mattress, on his side and gazing down at me with what, in my still barely conscious state, I take to be a look of wonderment on his face. Yawning, I pull my hand out from under the bedding and trail my fingers down his cheek and jaw. “Hey there,” I murmur, loving how he leans instinctively into my touch and how our world already seems to be instinctively righting itself.

“Hey,” Ethan replies as he softly kisses the palm of my hand. “I thought it... You... All of this... It's probably going to sound stupid, but I thought it might have been a dream.”

“Not a dream.” Stifling another yawn, I pull my hand back and sit up. “You could easily call it waking from a nightmare though.”

Following my lead by sitting up himself, Ethan nods. “You read the report then...”

“I read the report,” I confirm with a sigh as I draw my knees up to my chest and, turning to face Ethan, rest my cheek against them. “I... I just don't know what to say. I'm sorry for... doing a runner on you the other day back at HQ, but I... I was shocked and I immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. If I'd had any brains I would have...”

“Hey, shhh...” Shaking his head, Ethan reaches out his hand and places it warmly on my bare shoulder. “There's nothing to apologise for. Everything you'd thought to be true suddenly wasn't and you reacted...”

“Poorly,” I interrupt, wanting to make sure he knows that if I had my time over again I'd do things differently. “I reacted poorly and instead of putting two and two together in my head and coming up with... I still don't know what... I should have stayed and let you explain.”

Smiling, Ethan shrugs and begins to gently massage my shoulder. “It doesn't matter now,” he responds. “None of it does, not really. It's all in the past. I know a shrink would have a field day with it, but I just want to put the past month or however long it was behind us and move on. What's done is done and all that. We can't change any of it but we... can... accept that it happened and just move forward.”

Returning Ethan's smile, I shift into a kneeling position and, once he's done the same, slide my arms around his waist and hug him to me. “And to think I'm supposed to be the sensible one,” I murmur in his ear. “Keep that level of logical thinking up and I may just have to pass you my crown.”

“Oh... I wouldn't get used to it,” Ethan retorts, laughing as he hugs me back. “I just happen to think Wiseman's done enough damage and that, really, it has to stop now. We've found each other again and... It's over.”

“Over,” I repeat firmly. What happened, from Wiseman's actions to my own, can't be undone and nor, contrary to Ethan's – hopeful – declaration of just wanting to push them aside, can they ever be truly forgotten. On the other hand though he is right in that it's undoubtedly in our best interests to do what we can to just put it all behind us. Dwelling on it isn't going to change anything, and the same too goes for running different scenarios relentlessly through my head. Just because I know and accept that, in hindsight, I'd do things differently doesn't mean I've suddenly got access to a time-travelling device and can actually do anything about it. Wiseman fucked his own life before fucking with ours and I jumped spectacularly to the wrong conclusion, but... We're still here, still together, and still have everything to continue fighting for.

And that, really, is all that has to matter.

The sound of my stomach grumbling in hunger causing me to both laugh and pull slightly back from Ethan's embrace, I shake my head and grin. “Oh my God! Did you hear that? I think, for the first time in what feels like forever, that I may actually be hungry.”

“Oh.” Cocking his head to the side, Ethan grins back at me and glides his hand around my torso until it's resting flat against my stomach. “Are you sure that was yours?” he teases. “I could have sworn, not that I'm entirely sure I remember what it's like though, that that noise actually came from me. But... I don't know. Maybe the shock of having slept through the night for a change has just left me addled...”

“You and me both,” I reply, choosing to go with the light hearted flow instead of going back to the reasons why neither of us have been sleeping well or wanting to eat. “Come on.” Grabbing Ethan's hand, I climb off the bed and pull him along after me. “I've just remembered that I have bacon.”

“And eggs, I would hope.”

“Of course.” Admittedly I purchased them both because, well, I thought I should, that if they were in the kitchen I might possibly feel the urge for them at some point, as opposed to actually feeling any desire for them. But, hey, regardless of my reasons at least I still have them.

“Coffee?”

“Milk and all.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Mmm...” Spinning around, I give in to temptation and wrap my arms around Ethan for yet another embrace that he willingly returns. “It does. It really does,” I murmur as, suddenly, I start to feel all emotional. “I... Oh God, Ethan. I've missed you. When I thought you were dead I...”

Moist lips settling on mine silencing me in the best. most effective way possible, I pull Ethan tight and lose myself in the soft, wonderfully familiar kiss. For an all too brief moment time literally stands still as, our lips still locked together, we cling to each other. When the moment has passed and we've both blinked back the tears of relief and happiness that were threatening to spill from our eyes, Ethan strokes his hand down my cheek and murmurs, “You don't have to say it because I... I was there too and I know... I know exactly how you were feeling...”

Looking Ethan in the eye, I close both my hands around his and squeeze them together. “Moving forward, remember?” I offer quietly. “That, and breakfast isn't going to cook itself.”

“And, just like that you've got your logic crown back again,” he replies with a soft smile as he leans forward and plants a quick kiss on my forehead. “So... Bathroom, clothing, kitchen, yes?”

Nodding, I release his hands and walk out of the bedroom. “Sounds like a plan to me,” I state over my shoulder as I retrieve my clothing from the landing and begin to move towards the master bedroom. “I'll use the en suite in here so you can have the other one,” I add, “then we'll just meet in the kitchen when we've finished.”

There being no need to wait for a response, I walk into the en suite and do what I have to do before pulling on yesterday's clothes and making my way down to the kitchen. Retrieving the eggs and bacon from the refrigerator just as Ethan arrives, I cheerfully hand over the task of cooking to him and set about making the toast and the coffee. Once everything is ready we eat in comfortable silence at the kitchen's small table and it's only when our plates are empty and we're both on our second cup of coffee that I feel compelled to say something. I don't want to go over the report or question Ethan on the specifics of what happened in Romania – if he wants to talk about it he knows that I'm here – but there's still a few questions my inner, got-to-know-all-the-details perfectionist would like answered that I think would be fine to ask.

“So, you really weren't expecting to find me here?” I query, glancing at Ethan over the top of my cup as I take a sip of coffee. “You'd just decided, like I had, that this place held some nice memories and that it would be as good a place as any to just... retreat to?”

“I really wasn't expecting to find you here,” Ethan confirms, leaning back in his chair and toasting me with his cup. “I'll admit that I was really... hoping... you might be here but, to be perfectly honest, I actually wasn't expecting it at all.”

“You would have checked to see if the cabin was booked though, yeah?”

“I did. And, yes, before you ask, I also looked into the... inconsiderate... Mr Jenkins who was daring to book my cabin, but nothing in his records made me think he was anything other than what he appeared to be. If you must know, seeing his booking disappointed me because it pretty much put to bed my hope of finding you here.”

“Yet you came anyway.”

“I'd made my mind up.”

“And... If a... Trevor Jenkins... had been here, where, clearly, you’d decided you wanted to be, what were you planning to do?”

“Why...” Smirking, Ethan winks at me and calmly takes a mouthful of coffee. “Get rid of him, of course. As I've already told you, I'd made my mind up about wanting to stay at this cabin.”

“Get rid of him,” I repeat, laughing as I give him an expectant look. “And how, pray tell, were you proposing to do that? Jenkins is just a lowly accountant from Chicago. You could hardly just land on his doorstep and wave a gun at him.”

“Not a gun, no.”

“No?”

“No”

“So... Uh... What then? What were you planning to do to get rid of him?”

“Oh. I was just going to wave an ID badge at him.”

“IMF? What was going to be your cover story?”

“Not IMF.”

“Oh?”

“CDC.”

Okay. Now he's got me and he knows it. “The Centres for Disease Control?”

“Yep. I was going to inform him that there was an outbreak of some exotic disease in the area and that if he wanted to get out before quarantine measures were put in place he'd have to go right away,” Ethan explains smugly. “Wanting to look as official as possible, that's why I hired the Suburban at the airport instead of a sedan.”

“Smart ass,” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “Poor Jenkins. He wouldn't have known what hit him.”

“It was a good job then that I found you here instead,” Ethan replies, smiling as he pulls a set of car keys out of his pocket and stands up. “Speaking of the SUV, I left the laptop sitting on the front passenger seat and had better go and get it before it gets baked.”

Finishing my coffee, I push my chair back and get to my feet. “You do that while I clear up,” I respond. “Given how much we just managed to eat though, I think we'll need a trip down to the local general store before the day is out.”

“The general store, huh?”

“You have, I hope, noticed just how... rural... we are?”

“Now who's a smart ass?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grinning, I pick up our dirty dishes and carry them over to the sink. “Weren't you supposed to be rescuing a laptop?”

“Mmm... I'll be back in a minute.”

Ethan's... minute... not even extending that far, he returns to the kitchen after barely thirty seconds have passed and from the doorway declares blandly, “It's gone.”

“What's gone?” I query, turning around and giving him my full attention. “The laptop? Maybe you didn't leave it on the seat at all and...”

“It's not just the laptop that's gone,” Ethan interrupts, shrugging, “it's the entire SUV. Your Impala is still out there, but the Suburban's gone.”

“Oh.” Frowning, I walk over to Ethan and glance out the open front door to an empty patch of dirt where I'd last seen the Suburban. “Shit. Assuming it was hot-wired, how on earth did we sleep through that, huh?”

“Exhaustion and finally feeling as though it was... safe... to sleep, I expect,” Ethan replies with another shrug. “It's definitely gone though, along with a few bits and pieces of IMF equipment and my fake CDC ID that, well, probably shouldn't be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

“So... We'll call the local authorities and report it stolen?” I offer somewhat hesitantly because, let's face it, we're on unfamiliar territory here. IMF agents don't, as a general rule, have things stolen out from under their noses and, if they do they're expected to get it back themselves. Given that we're not on active duty though, and the Suburban is a hire-vehicle, I'm just not sure what we should do next.

Shaking his head, Ethan pulls his phone out of his pocket and mutters, “As they'll have deactivated the hire company's tracking device by now, I'll have Benji track my laptop. With any luck they won't have got far with it.”

“Benji's back in the States, then?”

“Uh-huh. Like Jane he was only too happy to be extracted from his family's ever loving bosom...” Trailing off, Ethan looks at me and groans. “Shit! I kind of forgot to mention that I sent them both a text last night to say that I'd found you and... well... there's a good chance they're on their way here as we speak.”

“Family holiday, huh?” I murmur, more amused by Ethan's worried expression than I am at the thought of being joined here by Jane and Benji. As nice as privacy might be, it's not imperative – not to mention, as they're almost always around anyway, we've simply learnt to adapt – and I'd only be lying if I said I didn't want to see them. Jane, I owe an apology to, and Benji I haven't even seen since the explosion. So, really, as far as I’m concerned the sooner they get here the better.

“Something like that,” Ethan responds, still looking at me closely. “You don't mind?”

“I don't mind,” I confirm. “What about you though, do you mind? We can still always go off by ourselves when we want to and...”

“Of course I don't mind,” Ethan interrupts with a fond smile, “and you're right, they are... family.”

“So... How about getting on with giving... little brother... a call and seeing if he can track the laptop?”

“Little brother, huh?”

“Cousin... twice removed?”

“Nah. I think you called it the first time,” Ethan grins as, stepping back from the doorway, he glances towards the front door. “Although it's still there, do you want to just go and check your car to see if anything has been taken?”

“I don't think I left anything in it... to... be taken,” I reply as, nonetheless seeing the logic behind Ethan's request, I step past him and begin to head towards the door. “I'll check though while you call Benji.” Stepping outside, I walk over to the Impala and carefully inspect it for any signs of tampering before, satisfied that my boring car had held no interest for the thieves, returning to the kitchen and starting the dishes. I can hear Ethan talking to Benji as he paces around the living area but, not wanting to eavesdrop, don't actually listen to what he's saying as I know I'll find out everything soon enough anyway. I've just finished the dishes and am contemplating making a fresh cup of coffee when Ethan walks into the kitchen and takes a seat at the table.

“You're going to love this,” he announces, dropping his phone down onto the table as, the coffee forgotten about for moment, I walk over to join him. “Benji was able to track the laptop to... wait for it... that huge, barn-like shed just down the road.”

“Really?” Frowning, I sit down and rest my hands flat on the tabletop. “Talk about keeping it in the neighbourhood.”

“But wait, it gets better.”

“It... does?”

“Mmm... There's been a spate of SUV thefts in the area going back six or so months now.”

“And...?”

“And guess who the registered owner of the shed is?”

“Who?”

“The son of the local sheriff,” Ethan mutters, pulling a face. “Which, and maybe I'm just being overly suspicious here, explains to me just why it is the local authorities haven't been having any luck finding any of the vehicles or making any arrests.”

“Oh.” Sighing, I slowly shake my head and roll my eyes. “Great. That's just great. We come here to... get away from it all... and somehow find ourselves caught up in a car theft racket. Talk about bad luck.”

“Bad luck for us or... bad luck for them?” Ethan murmurs as an all too familiar wicked glint appears in his eyes. “I mean, you could say they really did bite off more than they can chew by taking that particular SUV.”

Not yet knowing where exactly he's going with this but at the same time already knowing that when it's all over the thieves will have definitely come off second best, I shrug and feign a disappointed expression. “So much for my plans for a quiet retirement then.”

“Get that acknowledgement letter from the Secretary yet?” Ethan counters, watching me closely to gauge my reaction.

“Well, no...” Meeting Ethan's gaze, I smile and quickly poke my tongue out at him. “Hey! You can stop looking at me like that. I know how your mind works, remember? If I'd got all defensive over the retirement issue you would have changed the topic over onto that when, really, I only meant it as a joke.” Pausing, I get up and shift into the chair closest to Ethan. “Look. It's okay, it really is. I meant it at the time, but things have changed now and... I'm good to go. I want things to go back to as they were.”

Nodding, Ethan picks my hand up in his and squeezes it. “Good. That's what I was hoping you'd say,” he murmurs. “Now... Back to the scum bag inhabitants of the shed...”

“Don't tell me, let me guess... We crack open the cache, pick out the biggest weapons and go and inform them in no uncertain terms that they stole the wrong SUV?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of cracking open the cache in the hope of finding a canister of that quick acting knockout gas in there.”

“Oh, you were, were you?”

“Mmm... Not being a big fan of those in positions of power abusing it at the moment, I was thinking of... perhaps messing with their heads a little...”

“And how exactly do you propose to do that?” I prompt, leaning forward and gesturing with my free hand for him to continue.

“Okay. How's this sound... We use the gas to knock them out before going in and retrieving the SUV and everything that was in it. Now, once that's done we... rearrange... the remaining contents of the shed so, by the time they've come to and the FBI... who will have received an anonymous tip off regarding the sheriff having turned a blind eye to all the car thefts on his patch... arrive on the scene they'll all be scratching their heads and very much feeling as though they've taken a tumble down a rabbit hole...” Trailing off, Ethan smiles hopefully. “So, what do you think?”

“I think you've got an evil mind,” I reply, squeezing his hand back and returning his smile, “but I like it and don't think they deserve anything less than the best IMF have to offer messing with their heads. So... When do you think we should mount our attack?”

“Given that it's a large shed and I don't know how much heavy lifting might be involved, I was thinking of waiting until the others get here.”

“I take it then that they're definitely en route?”

“Uh-huh. They landed at the Salt Lake City airport an hour ago, so should be here in give or take three hours.”

“Jane driving?”

“Seeing as Benji was able to use his laptop to find the Suburban and who owned the shed, I very much hope Jane's the one doing the driving.”

Mock groaning, I pull my hand free and lightly smack his arm. “And again I say... smart ass!”

“You asked the question,” Ethan smirks. “I only supplied the answer.”

“Yeah, yeah...” Shaking my head, I stand up and, as a plan, a rather nice plan at that, begins to form in my mind, glance at my watch. “Seeing as you know as well as I do that Jane has a lead foot, I suspect your three hours would be closer to two and a half, tops.”

Following my lead, Ethan pushes his chair back and looks down at his watch. “So?”

“So...” I hold my hand out to Ethan and wait for him to take it. “If we want to be dressed and sitting casually on the sofa when they get here, I suggest you put your hand in mine and come upstairs with me now.”

~*~

“Come on, you two. Get a move on!” Jane calls out from the living room as, having somehow drawn the short straw, Benji and I busy ourselves in the kitchen with providing the... catering... for the coming entertainment. “The fat one's beginning to show signs of life.”

“The fat one's beginning to show signs of life,” I repeat to Benji as, clearly not being one to believe in the old 'a watched pot never boils' saying, he gestures impatiently at the microwave and, in general, just gives every indication of wanting to speed up the bag of popcorn inside by the sheer intensity of his gaze alone. “Now, there's an incentive to get a move on if ever there was one.”

“Given how long it took the fat bastard to go down, I'm not surprised he's going to be the first to come to,” Benji mutters, drumming his fingers on the top of the microwave. “When he finally went down though,” he continues, looking over at me and grinning wickedly, “you've got to admit that he went down... good.”

“Like a drunk elephant,” I agree as, returning his grin, I lean my back against the bench and join Benji in gazing with mounting impatience at the microwave. Although it started off as both quite simple and perhaps even borderline logical, once we went live with Ethan's plan to mess with the heads of the car thieves, things may – just possibly – have been taken a step too far. I'm not saying they don't deserve it. Nor am I saying that the, okay, somewhat childish glee we applied to stitching up the pack of red-neck idiots wasn't strangely enjoyable. It's more... Carefully hidden cameras in the shed to watch their confusion when they come to? And, just to make the most of the experience, of course, popcorn? Like it's some sort of live-action movie-night?

Not, mind you, that I'm complaining.

Friends, popcorn, and the promise of pissed off red-necks struggling to make sense of the beyond peculiar scene they've woken up to... I mean, really, compared to my life of the past month, what more could I possibly want?

“Finally!” Benji exclaims triumphantly as, his popcorn ready, he opens the microwave's door and – having already forgotten that he watched me do exactly the same thing only a few minutes ago – makes the mistake closing his bare hand around the bag. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”

“No comment,” I murmur, throwing a tea towel at Benji, who by this stage is blowing on his hand and indulging in some sort of weird hopping up and down motion.

“Hot,” he mutters extremely redundantly as catching the towel, he – better late than never – uses it to retrieve the popcorn from the microwave.

“No shit.” Shaking my head in fond bemusement, I pick up my own – 'here's one I prepared earlier' – bowl and begin to move towards the door as, still muttering about how hot the bag is, Benji pours his popcorn into a bowl before trailing after me. “Come on. We need to get out of here before Jane takes it upon herself to come and see what's taking us so long.”

Getting in step with me, Benji – with all the charm, grace and unashamed enthusiasm of a hyperactive three year old – shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and, once he's swallowed it, grins with apparent satisfaction. “At least it was worth the wait,” he comments, shovelling in another mouthful before – without first swallowing this time – adding something which, for the life of me, I can't quite translate into English. Or, make that any known language, for that matter.

“Didn't your mother ever tell you not to speak with your mouth full?” I mutter, coming to a stop just as we're about to reach the living room. “Seriously. Swallow before you speak next time.”

Shrugging, Benji quickly swallows his mouthful of popcorn before – because, you know, my life is incomplete without getting a good view of his tonsils – opening his mouth wide to prove that he's dutifully done as told and gesturing back towards the kitchen. “The chocolate. We forgot the chocolate.”

The chocolate. Silly me. Movie-nights never really having been my scene, obviously I have no idea what I'm doing and need all the help I can get.

“So we did.” Handing him my bowl, I turn around and add over my shoulder, “Never fear. I'll retrieve it while you deliver the popcorn.” Entering the kitchen I grab the – clearly of great importance – M&Ms from then bench by the microwave and, finding a small glass bowl in the cupboard, dump them quickly into it.

“Come on, Will! He's definitely starting to twitch!”

Snickering to myself at the seemingly growing more surreal by the second situation I'm now – quite contentedly, granted – a part of, I pick the bowl up and make my way into the living room just as, still cheerfully declaring the virtues of the popcorn, Benji sinks down on to the sofa next to Ethan. Having been planning to sit there myself but not wanting to make an issue of it, I place the M&Ms on the coffee-table and take a seat next to Jane on the room's other sofa. “So, he's starting to twitch, huh?”

“Will!” Clearly preoccupied with taste-testing the popcorn and keeping a watchful eye on the live-feed beaming in from the shed on the large, flat screen television, to have been paying attention to anything as mundane as where everyone was sitting, Jane shakes her head and, suddenly sitting bolt upright, scowls across at Benji. “Hey!” she states loudly, clicking her fingers to get his attention. “What are you doing sitting over there with Ethan?”

“Huh? What?” Looking as startled as I feel at her reaction to our seating arrangements, Benji jerks his head up and stares at Jane through wide, slightly anxious eyes. “What's wrong with sitting next to Ethan?”

“What do you think is wrong with there?” she retorts, rolling her eyes as she pats the small spot of cushion between us. “Come on. Move your butt. You need to swap with Will.”

“Why?” Looking increasingly confused, Benji glances first at me and then at Ethan in the hope of either of us coming to his rescue. “I... I don't get it. Why don't you want to sit next to Will?”

“Nothing's wrong with sitting next to Will. You just have to... think... about things for a second and move,” Jane retorts with a long suffering sigh as she continues to gaze expectantly at Benji. “Just... Seriously! How dense are you?”

“Dense? What?”

“Fine. Obtuse, then.”

“What?” Frowning, Benji turns to Ethan and murmurs, “Ethan? What's she talking about? Why doesn't she want to sit next to Will?”

“Maybe it's not about... not wanting to sit with Will at all,” Ethan offers, smirking as he stretches his legs out and rests them on the coffee-table. “Maybe she's just really desperate to sit with you, have you thought of that?”

“But... Why would she want to sit with me? What with the flight and the four hour drive to get here, we've been sitting together for most of the day,” Benji replies as, shaking his head, he gives Ethan a – 'I really don't know what's going on here, please save me' – beseeching look. “I... I'm really confused.”

“And, for what it's worth,” I pipe up as Jane makes a 'tsking' sound of annoyance under her breath, “I'm not offended by this conversation at all. In fact, if you'd all just prefer me to leave I'll...”

“As you're the only reason I'm doing this,” Jane interrupts, laughing, “the only place you're going is over there.”

“But...” Okay. Now it's my turn to feel as confused as Benji. “I'm fine here, really. I can see the television and...”

“And, you know,” Ethan interjects with a smirk, “I'm quite... equal opportunity... and happen to be fine with having Benji sitting here.”

“See?” Benji shoots Jane a smug look. “Ethan and Will are both fine with the seating situation, so...”

“Ethan and Will are as clueless as each other,” Jane fires back. “But, fine, whatever. I give up.”

His smirk broadening, Ethan murmurs, “Oh, I wouldn't give up if I were you,” before, in a move straight out of the sexually awkward teenage boy rule book, faking both a yawn and a stretch before less than subtly draping his arm around Benji's shoulder. “See? I told you I was... equal opportunity...”

Clearly startled by Ethan's out of the blue move, Benji makes a strange little yelping sound and jumps to his feet. “Is that all this is about, huh?” he demands, shaking his head and, laughing, pointing an accusing finger at Ethan. “Equal opportunity, my arse. You just want to be able to maul Will!”

“That's your cue to move,” Jane smirks, digging her elbow into my ribs. “Go on. The show is going to start in earnest any second now and I want everyone in their rightful seats.”

“Given that this entire... performance... appears to have been for my benefit,” I reply, laughing as I stand up and make to shift sofas, “Look. I'm moving, I'm moving.” Pausing by Benji, I give his arm a small pat and murmur, “If it helps, your delicate eyesight is safe. At my age I'm only good for one... mauling... a day and, well, you never did ask what we were doing before you got here...”

“La la la,” Benji mutters as, playing the role handed to him on a platter, he sticks his fingers in his ears and hurries over to sit next to Jane. He's not a prude and I'm quite sure couldn't care less in respect to what we might choose to get up to in front of him, but, well, faking indignation is just one of those things that never – for either the actor or the audience, actually – seems to get tired. “I'm not listening.”

Still laughing, I take my – rightful – seat next to Ethan and, swinging my legs up onto the sofa, lean against him as he immediately drapes his arm around my shoulders. “I'm sure there would have been an easier way to achieve this,” I comment, grinning as he chooses to reply by planting a quick kiss on the top of my head.

“I'm sure there would have been,” Jane replies as, his equilibrium already restored, Benji settles back and begins to help himself to a handful of popcorn out of the bowl on Jane's lap. “But, think about it, would it have been as much fun?”

Fun. Innocent, amusing, and, given the alternative of only a few short days ago, so unbelievably special. We're all together again and, with only a few fresh mental scars to show for the month of anguish we've all endured, life just goes on. I'll retract my resignation, the team will stay together and, again, life will just go on.

And...

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Comfortable, I lean against Ethan and, as Jane and Benji continue to laugh and tease each other, turn my attention to the scene on the television screen. While totally beneath our skills, training and possibly even general intelligence and age, the effort we put into rearranging the contents of the shed is second to none and I've got to admit to be looking forward to the reaction of the three unconscious red-necks when they wake up. Of the four SUVs we found in their glorified man-cave, Ethan's Suburban is back outside the cabin while the other three are parked bumper to bumper in front of the shed. Their idea of artwork only stretching to truly offensive and grotesque posters of naked women posed, more often than not, with massive snakes, we made a point of turning them all around to face the wall and, once that was done, shifted our attention to randomly moving every other item in the shed to a new location. I doubt, even if the FBI weren't on their way to take them into custody, that they'd ever be able to find some of their tools again given the degree of creativity we applied to finding new homes for them. As for their truly impressive stash of beer, not only did we empty it all down the drain but we also, just to ensure they don't miss it, used all the empty cans to build a pyramid in the middle of the floor with.

The pièce de résistance though would have to be the... compromising... pose we left the man we'd identified as the sheriff's son and his friend, the brain dead dirt bag, in. While not a fan of porn admiring, car stealing red-necks at the best of times, to encounter one wearing a t-shirt declaring 'Potential Rapist' was the final straw for all of us and, working on the no doubt correct assumption that the men will be as homophobic as they come, we've posed them draped all over each on their decrepit, beer stained sofa. The one with the beyond hideous taste in t-shirts has his hand on his friend's crotch and I'm very much hoping that they come to at the exact same time and immediately react by – punching first and thinking later – going on the defensive. It would, after all, be about what they both deserve.

“What are you smiling about?” Ethan murmurs, ruffling my hair and sharing his own smile with me as I tilt my head back to look up at him.

“How, for starters, I'm not at all ashamed by my wish to see the red-necks go at it,” I reply, shrugging. “That, and...” Shifting slightly, I curl my fingers around Ethan's thigh. “Twenty-four hours ago I never would have believed this possible, but, I'm just... happy. Everything has just worked out, we're all here and... Yeah. I'm just happy.”

Tightening his arm around my shoulders, Ethan nods and plants another kiss on the top of my head. “You and me both,” he whispers. “You and me both.”

~ end ~


End file.
